Two of A Kind
by callensensei
Summary: Can be read as a sequel to "Under the Gun" or as a stand-alone. What happened to Gilligan the night before the hunt?  After overhearing Gilligan's nightmares, the Skipper fears the worst - and blames Mr. Howell.
1. Chapter 1

**My thanks to littlesoprano for her sensitive beta-reading. A story like this certainly needs it!**

**Thanks also to Musingpadawan for requesting a sequel to "Under the Gun," and for the ingenious idea of how to begin this story.**

**Sherwood Schwartz created Gilligan's Island, not me. I'm just stretching the envelope – a lot.**

Two of a Kind

"_No! Ramoo, I said get your hands off me!_ _Skipper!_"

The Skipper jolted awake as the voice above him shattered the darkness. Scrambling out of his hammock, the big man was on his feet in seconds. "Gilligan! Wake up, little buddy!"

In the faint, filmy moonlight, Gilligan was flailing his arms at some unseen assailant. The Skipper leaned over his writhing form and grasped his shoulders, but Gilligan jerked away, eyes clenched shut. "_I mean it, Ramoo!_ _Don't touch me like that, you creep, or I'll let you have it!"_

The Skipper froze at the rage and terror that vibrated in that voice – and at that name. Why Ramoo this time, and not Kinkaid? Ramoo had been nothing but a henchman, a hired goon. He'd had no hatred for Gilligan – or had he?

Now the first mate's voice contracted in anguish. _"Mr. Howell! Help me!"_

Mr. Howell? The Skipper felt a momentary stab of jealousy. Why should Gilligan call on _him_?

_"Please, Mr. Howell! Don't leave me alone with Ramoo!"_

The Skipper's jealousy sank in the wake of his mounting dread. There had been only one time when Gilligan, Mr. Howell and their brutal visitors had been alone together: the night before the hunt, one week ago, when Mr. Howell had tried to bribe Kinkaid into letting Gilligan go. Anxiously the Skipper cast his mind one week back, summoning up every detail of Mr. Howell's return.

The five castaways had been waiting around a little campfire in the cave where Kinkaid had ordered them to spend the night. "Oh, dear, what's taking Thurston so long?" said Mrs. Howell. "He should have been back before now!"

"I should have gone with him," muttered the Skipper, looking towards the cave's mouth.

"No you shouldn't, Skipper, and you know why," the Professor reminded him. "I'm sure Mr. Howell will be along in a moment, and Gilligan with him. Let's just all keep calm."

Suddenly the sound of the millionaire's signature whistle filled them with hope. When Mr. Howell emerged out of the darkness, his wife rushed into his arms. "Oh, Thurston! Thank heavens!"

But when no slim figure appeared behind Mr. Howell, the Skipper's heart turned to lead. "Howell! Where's Gilligan? What happened with Kinkaid?"

Mr. Howell's haunted eyes met the Skipper's. "It's hopeless, Captain. Kinkaid just kept on saying no. I went higher and higher – eventually offered him half a million! He said he wasn't interested in money. All he's interested in is..." Mr. Howell paused, loathe to say it. "...our young friend's blood."

For a moment the other five castaways stood silent and appalled. Then Ginger pulled the Professor into a corner and began whispering urgently to him as Mary Ann buried her face in her hands. Instinctively the Skipper gathered her under his big arm and pulled her close.

"Skipper, this just can't be happening!" she cried. "What are we going to do?"

"Easy, Mary Ann," the Skipper murmured, though he felt three times as helpless as she. "We're not licked yet."

"But Thurston, I don't understand," said Mrs. Howell as she sought the comfort of her husband's arms. "Why on earth does that dreadful man want to harm the poor boy?"

Mr. Howell shrugged, dazed by the monstrous evil of it all. He clutched her gloved hands tightly. "He's a fiend, my darling. So dead inside that nothing but murder excites him anymore." The patrician voice trembled. "How I hated to leave the boy in that den!"

The Skipper shook his head. "Don't blame yourself, Mr. Howell. At least you tried!" Gently he handed Mary Ann off to Mrs. Howell and took Mr. Howell aside, away from the others. "But tell me about my little buddy. Did you see him? Is he okay? They haven't hurt him, have they?"

Mr. Howell seemed about to speak, but then hesitated. His eyes grew even more haunted.

Horrified, the Skipper seized Mr. Howell's arm. "Have they?"

That grip seemed to shake the millionaire out of his trance as he shook his head and cleared his throat loudly. "No. No, Captain, I promise you. He's absolutely terrified, of course. But he's bearing up, somehow." Mr. Howell sighed bitterly. "I tried to reassure him as best I could. He wanted to see you, but I explained why that was out of the question."

The Skipper clenched his fists, fighting for control. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to go and burst into that hut, come what may, but Kinkaid's threat still echoed in his ears. _"Don't try to come and see him, Skipper. I'd hate for those girls to have to pay for it."_ Desperate for reassurance, the Skipper looked at Mr. Howell again. "But you`re sure they won't hurt him – not tonight?"

That haunted look returned for a moment; Mr. Howell rubbed his chin as his eyes narrowed. Then he stared fixedly at a spot on the sandy ground as though it were the last card turned up in a round of poker. "Kinkaid's a fiend, but he's no fool. He wants Gilligan in top condition for the hunt tomorrow. The boy's safe enough - for now. God help him tomorrow! God help us all."

Gilligan had survived the hunt - whether or not by the grace of God, the Skipper didn't know. But he did know that something else had happened the night before; he had sensed there was something more than the hunt behind the horror in Howell's eyes. Now he was sure of it.

Still in the throes of his nightmare, Gilligan continued to struggle. His voice choked in desperation. "Mr. Howell, if you leave me with him, you know what he's gonna do to me! Don't let him, Mr. Howell! I'd rather die! Please, you've gotta help me!" The first mate broke into sobs, curling in upon himself.

The Skipper clutched his friend's shoulders as if trying to pull him from an unknown deep. "Gilligan, little buddy, what is it? What was Ramoo going to do? I know he didn't beat you – I'd have seen the bruises! What could he have done to you that didn't leave any mark?"

Even as he said the words, the Skipper suddenly stopped as a nauseating chill swept over him. He had spent enough years on long sea voyages, isolated from land and women, to know the things that could happen between men in the dark corners of ships. His eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. No, dear God, no. He _couldn't_ have!" The Skipper held those thin shoulders like they were made of straw. "Gilligan! Gilligan, little buddy, wake up!"

At last Gilligan gasped awake, and his wide, panicked eyes stared straight ahead. The Skipper whispered urgently. "Gilligan! It's me!"

Gilligan blinked and focussed in the darkness. His hands came up to clutch the Skipper's arms. "Skipper?" he whispered.

"Yes, little buddy! It's me! You're all right now!" The Skipper's throat tightened. "They're gone. You're safe now."

"No I'm not, Skipper." Gilligan's voice shook with despair. "Now they come for me in my sleep. I can't take it anymore - I'm gonna lose my mind, Skipper! Please make it stop!"

"Gilligan, I'd do anything to help you, but you've got to meet me halfway!" The Skipper swallowed and steeled himself before speaking in the gentlest tones he knew. "You mentioned something a minute ago about Ramoo. You were dreaming about him. You were scared half to death." The Skipper was afraid too, but he forced himself to go on. "Why, little buddy? What did he do?"

Those great eyes fixed on the Skipper for a moment in a look of shame and fear. Then Gilligan shook his head violently. "N-nothing, Skipper. I don't remember!"

"Don't remember?" In spite of himself, the Skipper gripped Gilligan's shoulders more tightly. "You were screaming his name! Telling him to get away from you! What the hell did he do to you?"

Gilligan shrank back, his fingers curling away from the Skipper's arms. "I can't tell you, Skipper! Don't ask me! Please, don't ask me!"

The words cracked the Skipper's heart. He couldn't move. Silently he stood looking down at his young friend as the very earth seemed to plummet from beneath his feet. At last he nodded in assent, grateful for the shadows that hid his face. Then drawing his hands away from Gilligan's shoulders, the Skipper wrung them beneath the hammock in sheer helplessness.

Gilligan gave a shaky sigh in the darkness. "Skipper, I'm so tired. I want that stuff...that stuff the Professor made."

It was a moment before the Skipper could trust himself to speak. "Th-the sleeping drug, you mean? Oh, little buddy, I don't know...you know the Professor said it could be dangerous if you take too much."

"Please, Skipper. I don't wanna have that dream again."

The Skipper hadn't the heart to refuse him. He reached out automatically to pat Gilligan's shoulder, but suddenly fearing that Gilligan might shrink from the touch of any man, he halted with a terrible newfound awkwardness. Miserably, he turned instead and blundered his way in the dark hut to the water cask, where the ambient moonlight gave just enough illumination for him to fill a coconut cup and pour in a measure of viscous liquid from a nearby glass vial.

The Skipper brought the cup to the hammock. "Are you sure you won't change your mind, little buddy?" He knew as he asked that his question had nothing to do with the drug, and Gilligan seemed to sense it.

"Yes, Skipper." Gilligan's fingers briefly brushed his own, and the young sailor downed the mixture. As Gilligan did so, the image of a desperate man drinking poison flashed unbidden into the Skipper's mind. He caught up the cup as Gilligan's head dropped onto the pillow and the pale eyelids fluttered into stillness.

For a few minutes the Skipper stood silently, throat working. His grip tightened on the coconut cup until it burst into fragments, and with a savage curse he flung them into the shadows. Then he crossed the room in one stride. Seizing a bamboo-and-grass chair, the Skipper smashed it to pieces with his bare hands, snapping the thick bamboo stalks like matchsticks. He wanted to take the whole hut, the whole jungle, the whole of this forsaken island, and do the same. And he desperately wished he had killed Ramoo when he had had the chance. But Ramoo was beyond his reach now, and so was Kinkaid. The Skipper took a great, deep breath as the memory of Gilligan's cries haunted the darkness.

_``Mr. Howell! You know what he's gonna do!``_

Realization burst upon the Skipper like a bomb. So that had been the reason for Howell`s mysterious reticence that night. He _had _known what was going to happen, and simply walked away. And then he had lied about it. And the Skipper, believing that lie, had sat there useless in that cave while Gilligan was...

The ghostly moonlight flushed to burning red. There would be a reckoning for this. There had to be. Clenching his great fists, the big sailor stalked out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"Get up, Howell!"

"Mmmph? What, Lovey?" Mr. Howell shifted, eyes closed, and clutched his teddy bear to him.

"I said GET UP!"

Mr. Howell's eyes snapped open at that furious snarl. He turned around. "Captain! What on Earth?"

The Skipper grabbed the lapels of Mr. Howell's cashmere pyjamas, crushing them. "You owe me some answers, Howell. And a lot more!"

Mr. Howell stared at the Skipper in fear and astonishment. The Skipper certainly hadn't been himself since Kinkaid's mad manhunt, but this smouldering rage was terrifying. Mr. Howell glanced over at the still peacefully sleeping figure of his wife and knew he had to humour the man for now. "Of course, Captain," Mr. Howell whispered, far more calmly than he felt. "But perhaps we might discuss it in some more convenient location. Outside at the table, perhaps?"

"Get moving!"

Only a hazy crescent moon glimmered in the dark sky above the silent camp. The bamboo table, devoid of food and fellowship, lay in the dim light like a mortuary slab.

The Skipper had virtually dragged Mr. Howell across the clearing by the lapels. Now he thrust the millionaire down onto a bamboo bench and loomed over him. Mr. Howell sat up and straightened his collar nervously, darting a sidelong glance at the Professor's hut in case he should need to call out for reinforcements. "Captain, what's this all about? What have I done?"

"It's what you didn't do, you dirty louse!" The Skipper barely kept his voice low. "I oughtta tear you limb from limb!"

With an effort, Mr. Howell kept his own voice calm. "All right, then, Captain. What didn't I do? I assume this has something to do with our young friend?"

"You bet it does, Howell! And that night you went to pay off Kinkaid!"

Mr. Howell stared for a moment before he spoke in tones of hushed horror. "Captain, is this about the bribe? Why, I swear to you, I was prepared to pay Kinkaid anything! He knew that! But the man was a lunatic! You have my word!"

"I'm not talking about the money, and you know it! I'm talking about when you told me those two landsharks hadn't hurt my little buddy!"

Mr. Howell blinked. "They hadn't, Captain! I could see it with my own eyes! The boy was unharmed!"

"But what about afterwards?" demanded the Skipper, growing ever louder. "You said they weren't _going_ to hurt him either! At least not that night!"

"And I'm certain they didn't! It's not possible!"

The Skipper bared his teeth like an enraged grizzly. "Stow it, Howell! You knew, all right! I could see it in your face that night! You knew what Ramoo wanted!"

"Ramoo?" Mr. Howell gasped as if a lightning flash had lit the clearing. "So that's what this is all about! But what exactly has Gilligan told you?"

"Told me?" Those blue eyes blazed as the Skipper took Mr. Howell's words for a confession. "How could he tell me? How does a man admit a thing like that?" The Skipper stabbed a thick finger in the direction of his hut. "But he's been screaming in his sleep for you not to leave him with Ramoo, and I can guess the rest!"

"See here, Captain! You don't understand!"

"I understand enough! You left him with that animal and saved your own skin!" Fury, pain and betrayal welled in the Skipper's eyes. He grabbed one of Mr. Howell's lapels as his other hand bunched into a fist. "You cheap, no-good stuffed shirt! You louse!"

Neither man noticed the three doors swinging open around the clearing. "You are _mistaken_, Captain!" Mr. Howell thundered. He stood up, and his eyes and voice took on the commanding power of the chairman of the board. "Yes, I know exactly what that blackguard intended, but it did not happen! Do you hear me? _It – did - not - happen_ - because I, Thurston Howell the Third, did not let it happen!"

Stunned, the Skipper froze as a beam of light suddenly shone on his face. It was wielded by a pyjama-clad Professor, standing in his hut doorway. "Good Heavens! What in the world is going on out here?"

The tousle-haired girls peeked out of their hut: Mary Ann in her long shirt, holding a candle and Ginger clutching a blanket around herself. "Mr. Howell? S-skipper? What's all the shouting about?" whispered the redhead.

Mrs. Howell stood with her hand on the red-curtained French door, while her other hand held a diamond watch. "Thurston, dear, can't you be a little more quiet?" she called innocently. "It's only two o'clock in the morning!"

Mr. Howell gently put his hand on the Skipper's and pulled it from his lapel. "Hello, Lovey dear! Good evening, Ladies, Professor. Do forgive us, everyone," he called, flashing his most disarming smile. "The Captain was just telling me about a barroom brawl he fought in Singapore, and I'm afraid he got a little carried away! Ha! Such a tale of derring-do!" Mr. Howell turned to the Skipper, still smiling. "Perhaps we'd best continue this most absorbing story in your hut, Captain. We seem to be disturbing folk out here."

The Professor wasn't fooled for a minute. He looked at Mr. Howell for a moment, then at the Skipper. "Skipper? How is Gilligan?" he asked cautiously.

Mr. Howell's pronouncement and the sight of the others had taken the wind from the Skipper's sails, and he breathed deeply as the adrenalin slowly ebbed out of him. Pushing his disordered blond hair out of his eyes, he tried to form a coherent answer. "Uh...he's...he's asleep, Professor. I gave him that drug of yours."

"I see. Still, you shouldn't leave him alone too long." The Professor regarded both men in the steady beam of the light. "Why don't I keep you two gentlemen company?"

As the Professor started forwards, Mr. Howell held up a hand and smiled. "No, no, Professor. We wouldn't dream of keeping you up. We can manage. Isn't that right, Captain?"

The Skipper let out a long, slow breath. Then he nodded again.

"Shall we, then?" Mr. Howell bowed and politely gestured to the Skipper to precede him. Like a man in a trance, the Skipper stumbled towards his hut as Mr. Howell followed. The millionaire turned back for a moment. "Ta-ta, everyone. Nighty-night. See you shortly, Lovey dear." He waved affably at everyone, smiling broadly.

"Ta-ta, dear," called Mrs. Howell happily, and with a flutter of blue chiffon, she floated back into her hut. Mary Ann and Ginger traded one uncertain glance before looking at the Professor for guidance. When the scientist nodded reassuringly they crept indoors, the wavering glow of their candle swiftly disappearing from behind their curtains.

The Professor stood watching the two men for a few moments more. At last he gave them both one last cautious wave before snicking off the flashlight and vanishing indoors.

The Skipper took a deep breath. The moonlight seemed softer now and the roaring in his ears had given way to the soft rustle of the palm trees. Bewildered, he stared at his old rival. "Howell...my God, did I just hear you right? Did you just say you _didn't _let it happen?"

Any fear Mr. Howell had felt was gone now. He looked the old salt square in the eye once again, though he kept his voice low. "Good Heavens, man, what do you take me for? The boy's like a son to me! Do you think I'd have abandoned him to such a fate?" Mr. Howell's eyes flashed with anger, though it was not for the Skipper. "Bad enough the poor lad was already under the threat of Kinkaid's gun. But rifle or no rifle, I'd no intention of leaving that hut until I knew I'd thwarted Ramoo's sordid little scheme!"

Suddenly the Skipper remembered that Kinkaid had had a gun. Of course he had – that was why the hunt had happened in the first place. That was what Mr. Howell had faced that night. He had ventured into the den of a madman, unarmed, to save Gilligan. The Skipper struggled to understand. "B-but how did you stop him? How could you have stopped him?"

"You play poker, Captain. You're a gambling man."

"Wh-yes."

"Well, be thankful you've never played against Thurston Howell the Third. I'd have fleeced you in a minute." Mr. Howell gave a wry smile. "I bluffed them, Captain. Played them against each other. Kinkaid are Ramoo were two of a kind, you see. They didn't trust one other – at least not the way that we do. That was the Ace up my sleeve."

Suddenly they heard a faint cry from the crew's hut. "_Skipper!_"

The Skipper blanched. "Gilligan! Gilligan, little buddy!"

He charged into the hut, Mr. Howell close on his heels.


	3. Chapter 3

In the shadowy hut the two men saw a wiry shape writhing in the top hammock. The Skipper rushed over as Mr. Howell groped about in the darkness. "Captain! We need a little light on the subject!"

"There's a candle and matches on the table!"

The Skipper caught Gilligan's shoulders and tried to keep him from falling to the ground. "That sleeping drug's just not strong enough! He's dreaming again!"

There was a hiss and the sharp smell of a sulphur match; a moment later Gilligan's tormented features leaped up in the flickering candlelight. "Don't touch me!" Gilligan shivered and twisted away from the Skipper's hands. "Stay away from me!"

The Skipper shrank back, dismayed, but Mr. Howell laid a hand on his shoulder. When the Skipper turned, Mr. Howell offered him the lit candle in its empty rum-bottle holder. "Here, Captain. Let me speak to him."

The Skipper hesitated for a moment as the old jealousy returned.

"_Mr. Howell! Please!"_

That did it. The Skipper grabbed the candle and moved back as Mr. Howell approached the first mate.

With gentle firmness Mr. Howell took hold of Gilligan's shoulders. "I'm here, my boy," he soothed in his most mellifluous voice. "Thurston Howell the Third is here. Don't be afraid."

"Mr. Howell," Gilligan murmured, his eyes still closed in a drugged half-sleep. He stopped struggling, but his voice was still tense with fear. "Help me!"

"I will, my boy. You know I will. But I need you to do your part as well. This is a joint venture, you see, Gilligan. It's terribly important that you tell me what happened the night you were a prisoner: as much as you can."

"Don't...want to," Gilligan whispered, shivering.

"I'll be right here, son. You shan't face this alone. Will you try?"

Gilligan nodded slowly, eyes still shut, and Mr. Howell smiled. "That's my brave lad. Now then: listen carefully. Do you recall when I tried to pay Kinkaid to let you go, only the bounder refused?"

"...so much money..."

Mr. Howell huffed a little in embarrassment. "Nonsense, my boy. Mere pocket change. I can find that much beneath the seat cushion of my chaise! But do you remember how I left, and then you cried out?"

" 'cause Ramoo..." Gilligan's face contorted and he twisted away.

"Forgive me for making you remember, my boy," muttered Mr. Howell. "The man was a wretch - and a fool as well, trying to take advantage of you right under Kinkaid's nose! But whatever Ramoo did, it could only have taken a split second. I know I came rushing back the instant I heard you!"

Gilligan shook his head helplessly. "I yelled for the Skipper...but he didn't come!"

Mr. Howell didn't dare look back at the Skipper; the wildly wavering shadows of the candle flame and the muffled groan from behind him said enough. "Now then, Gilligan. That's hardly fair," said Mr. Howell quietly. "I explained to you why the Captain couldn't be there."

There was a pause. Then, "Oh...my gosh, that's right...the girls...Mr. Kinkaid said...no choice..."

"Precisely."

From behind Mr. Howell came a quivering sigh of relief, and the shadows stilled.

Mr. Howell continued. "The Captain and the girls are fine, Gilligan. But let's get back to that night. Now – do you recall when I came back? What happened then?"

"You told me, 'don't worry.' Won't leave..."

"That's right, my boy. Because I knew as well as you did that Ramoo had worse things in mind."

Gilligan shook his head. "Why did he?" he whispered in confusion and guilt. "Did I do something? Did I make him think..."

"Of course not!" Mr. Howell spoke more forcefully than he meant to, and at once lowered his voice to a more gentle tone. "Of course not. No more than you invited Kinkaid to hunt you. They were simply two of a kind, Gilligan, feeding on the fear and pain of others. You didn't do a thing to bring any of this on. None of us did."

Gilligan let out a deep sigh.

Mr. Howell patted his arm reassuringly, an echo of the gesture he had made in the hut while Ramoo stood glowering by. "Now, think back. After you'd calmed down a little, Kinkaid wanted me to leave again. And Ramoo wanted him to leave, so that he could be alone with you."

Gilligan shuddered.

"Think back, Gilligan. Was Ramoo ever alone with you? Did he come near you again after I spoke with Kinkaid?" In the pause that followed, the millionaire was certain he could hear his own heart pounding.

At last Gilligan spoke with simple, quiet relief. "No."

There was a sudden heavy creak, a sigh that was like a typhoon, and the candle flame went out. Mr. Howell turned in the darkness, waiting, until the spark from a match flared up as the Skipper lit the candle again. The big sailor was slumped in a chair beside the wooden table, one hand clutching the candle-holder like a life-preserver. He waved the match out, breathing slowly like a man learning to breathe all over again.

With a fervent sigh of his own, Mr. Howell turned back to Gilligan. "You've no idea how glad I am to hear that, son."

Gilligan frowned a little. "You...made Mr. Kinkaid sore... Said Ramoo lied to him. Said...he'd have no sport. Mr. Kinkaid...was real mad. At you and Ramoo."

"Yes, I know, my boy."

"He threatened you. But you... wouldn't go." Gilligan's voice was full of wonder. "...so brave..."

"Oh, my gosh," came a whisper from behind them. Mr. Howell looked back again to see the Skipper staring back at him, an ocean of gratitude glimmering in his eyes. Gently waving him to be quiet, the millionaire turned back to Gilligan again.

"My boy, I don't mind telling you I was trembling in my patent leather wingtips. Fortunately, as far as acting is concerned, I'll wager I could give Ginger a run for her money!"

"Ginger..." whispered Gilligan. "She came after...tried to fool Kinkaid...but I drank...drug..."

The Skipper suddenly stared straight ahead, like a man who sees the beam of a lighthouse through the fog. "Of course! Ginger! She was there right after you were, Mr. Howell! She said Kinkaid was with Gilligan, but Ramoo was outside. And then Gilligan knocked himself out! Ramoo couldn't have hurt him!" He looked up at Mr. Howell. "Oh, Mr. Howell, how could I have been so stupid?"

Mr. Howell smiled and gestured in dismissal, but then paused for a moment and looked back at the still semi-conscious first mate. "Gilligan, my boy, I don't understand. If nothing happened – I mean if Ramoo never got to carry out his plot – why these dreadful nightmares?"

"...was so scared..." whispered Gilligan.

Mr. Howell sighed. "Of course. Those two were enough to give anyone nightmares. But I'm sure if you spoke to the Captain about it—"

Gilligan shook his head desperately. "No!"

The millionaire was perplexed. "But what's to prevent you?"

"...can't tell him...wouldn't understand..." Gilligan whispered wretchedly. "...so big, so strong...nobody'd try that on him!"

Mr. Howell turned to beckon to the Skipper, but the Skipper had already burst from his chair. In two strides he was at the hammock as Mr. Howell stepped back. "Little buddy, I'm here. I heard everything! What do you mean I wouldn't understand?"

"Skipper?" Gilligan whispered.

The Skipper's voice broke. "Gilligan, how could you even think I'd blame you for something like this?"

"You mean...you don't?"

"Of course not, you knucklehead!" The hoarse words were filled with tenderness as the Skipper took hold of Gilligan's shoulders again. Gilligan did not fight him. "It wasn't your fault! It could've happened to anybody! But you survived that hunt, when a lot of other men couldn't have, little buddy! I take my hat off to you! I really mean that!"

"...Skipper..."

"And if you need to talk about anything that happened, and I mean _anything_, you do that! You wake me up in the middle of the night if you have to! That's an order!"

"...Oh, Skipper...thank you..." Gilligan's head shifted on the pillow, and his whole body relaxed.

Mr. Howell spoke up. "Go back to sleep now, my boy. And if Ramoo comes prowling about your dreams anymore, just remember: you fought him off once. And the Skipper and I will be there. Always."

The first mate's breathing gradually eased, and he spoke no more. Silently the Skipper pulled up the brown blanket and tucked it 'round him.

"By George. I wish it were that easy to dispel the ghost of Jonathan Kinkaid," Mr. Howell murmured sadly. "But that fiend did far more to him than Ramoo did. It'll be a long, hard road back for him, I'm afraid."

"For awhile there tonight, I was afraid he wouldn't make it back at all." The Skipper twisted his hands. "After all these years of being buddies! How could he think I'd blame him?"

"I think it's just as you said earlier, Captain. How does a man admit to something like that? Kinkaid trampled his dignity enough, treating him like a hunted animal. Gilligan's going to have to gather the pieces back one by one." Mr. Howell looked keenly at the Skipper. "And that's why I suggest we keep this whole business our little secret, Captain. At least from the ladies, for the time being."

"Why just them?"

"Well, I imagine the Professor might have some good advice for us. He has dabbled in psychology, I believe. But Gilligan might be more embarrassed to have the women know, especially if he felt compromised as a man. I think we should let it be his decision to tell them, if and when he's ready."

The Skipper nodded slowly. "I get your point." He sighed a little. "I sure wish I could tell them all what a hero you are, though."

"Oh, pooh, Captain. I merely played a rather inventive game of poker, that's all." Mr. Howell looked down fondly at Gilligan's sleeping form. "But I couldn't have done otherwise. I've never met anyone who's taught me so much about the good in humanity, excepting my dear wife. I could never have faced her if I'd allowed him to come to harm." Suddenly a sad smile stole over the millionaire's face. "By Jove. Remember back in the old days, Captain, when we used to use the boy as a pawn in our little power struggles? The presidential campaign? The oil company? That ridiculous turtle race?"

The Skipper nodded, shamefaced. "'Guess we're two of a kind too, huh?"

Mr. Howell snorted. "Indeed, Captain. What a hand Fate's dealt the boy! The two of us as champions! He might as well have folded long ago." The millionaire shook his head as he regarded his one-time rival. "And yet...even the weakest hand can win in the hands of a skilled player. And only the very best player could have softened the likes of you and me."

The Skipper nodded, looking down at his first mate. "You can say that again."

Mr. Howell patted Gilligan's arm once more, then looked for the non-existent watch on his wrist. "Oh, my word, I wonder what the time is? I do hope poor Lovey isn't waiting up for me. Perhaps I ought to be heading back to beddy-bye." As he turned to go, Mr. Howell suddenly spotted the mangled remains of the crew's other chair on the floor. "I say, Captain! What on earth happened to your chair?"

"Oh..." the Skipper thought fast. "You know Gilligan. He can break something just by looking at it! I'll just get another one from outside."

"Jolly good," said Mr. Howell, with infinite tact. He started towards the door, but the Skipper caught him by the arm.

"Mr. Howell! Wait a minute. I gotta apologize for what happened before. I was way out of line. But you've gotta understand – I was out of my mind."

"Of course I understand," said Mr. Howell gently. "Say no more about it."

"Gosh, I...well...gosh, you sure are a swell guy. I mean that, you know."

"Please, Captain, my blushes. Why don't you save it for my funeral – though come to think of it, you have already given me the nicest funeral a man ever had," said Mr. Howell.

The joke caught the Skipper off guard, and he found himself in danger of blushing at the memory of his heartfelt eulogy. But now, as then, he let his full heart speak. He gripped Mr. Howell's arm tightly. "Well...I want to tell you, Mr. Howell, I never meant it half as much as I do right now. I know you and I've locked oars more than once, but that was a long time ago. I - I'm never gonna be able to thank you enough for what you did for my little buddy."

"Captain, I—"

"No, I want to say this," the Skipper insisted. "You protected him when I couldn't. If you were my own brother, you'd couldn't have done more for him – or for me. I'm gonna owe you for that for the rest of my life."

Mr. Howell laughed gently as he shook the Skipper's hand in return. "I tell you what. Pay me off in letting the boy caddy for me more often, instead of making him do all of those dreary chores. He quite enjoys it, you know."

The Skipper actually managed a brief chuckle as he relinquished Mr. Howell's hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "Whatever you say." He reached over and turned his chair to face the hammocks.

"Not turning in yet, Captain?"

"No." The Skipper settled himself down. "Think I'll watch my little buddy for awhile yet. At least until that drug wears off. Maybe he'll want to talk when he wakes up."

"Let's keep our fingers crossed. How long will that potion take to wear off, anyhow?"

"Couple of hours, at least."

"Hmmm." Mr. Howell paused with his hand on the bamboo door, looking at the sleeping form of the first mate. "You know, I don't feel much like sleeping either. This hasn't exactly been the most pleasant trip down memory lane, has it?"

"You're telling me." The Skipper shook his head. "I could sure use a good stiff drink."

"So could I. But I simply can't stand to drink alone. Why don't I fetch a bottle of my private stock? Eight-year-old Crown Royal!"

"Boy, you've got taste. That's the best Scotch there is! Count me in!"

"I could even rummage about for a deck of cards." Mr. Howell raised a challenging eyebrow. "What do you say? Care for a little game of chance?"

A wry smile lit the Skipper's tired face. "Huh. With an old cardsharp like you? Well...only if I get to deal!"

Mr. Howell grinned in delight. "And I'll cut. Splendid."

The Skipper gave a soft snort, then reached over and put two coconut cups on the table. "What about the stakes? I know the way you play, Howell: winner take all!"

Mr. Howell looked back at Gilligan and smiled gently. "Ah, Captain. I think in this case, we've both already won."


End file.
